Something to Talk About (or Not!)
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and his pathologist finally get together. Molly wants to talk about it, but Sherlock sees things differently. Sherlolly.


Molly Hooper was slowly coming to conscientiousness after a not very restful night. She was floating in that region where asleep and awake merge, flowing over each other in gentle waves. It was an area inhabited by all sorts of possibilities, and it was hard to discern which was reality, and which was a dream. She could hold a conversation with her long deceased father, or solve a troubling problem from work. If she was at the tail end of an unpleasant dream, she could alter its trajectory into a pleasant one. If in a pleasant dream, it could become even better. But the clouds in her mind seem to be slowly lifting, and she finally gave into the pressure of her subconscious mind to open her eyes and face the day.

No! God, no! Bloody hell, no! No! No! No! She found herself looking into the sleeping face of the world's only consulting detective, and, not inconsequently, the love of her life. He was still asleep, thank the lord! She took a deep breath and gathered her thought as she assessed the situation.

It was not unusual for the man to climb into her bed. But it was never for the reason Molly hoped. He had been spending more and more time at her flat, perhaps out of concern for her safety, even after the whole "fauxiarty" debacle had been ended. Maybe he was just lonely, and missed John's companionship. After a late night of experiments, or crap telly, or experiments in crap telly, he would often just spend the night. If he retired first, he would flop in to Molly's bed, taking her invitation once offered years ago as blanket permission to do so. Molly would then retire to the guest room to suffer on the medieval torture device which passed as her spare bed. She would, of course, eventually wind up on her couch. If Molly retired first, he would wait until she drifted off, and then join her, always careful not to wake her. He was always gone before she awoke, perhaps not prepared to face her comments.

But not this morning. There he was, asleep on her pillow, a slight smile playing across his drowsing face. He was beautiful, Molly thought, not for the first time. It was all she could do to keep from ruffling through his curls as he lie there. His skin looked like fine marble, so perfectly pale it was almost translucent, stretched across his chest and well developed abs. A small alarm began to sound in her sleep addled brain. Where is his tee shirt? The one he usually sleeps in? While she certainly did appreciate the view, on full display in the early morning sun, she did vaguely wonder why, on any previous occasion she had awakened in the night to find him crowding her bed, she had never been afforded such a sight, even in the darkness. It was then that it occurred to her that she could feel the coolness of her sheets on areas of her own body that should have been covered by kitten-festooned fabric. It was then that she became fully awake, and her mind retreated to her original reaction. No! God, no! Bloody hell, no! No! No! No!

Bells were ringing, alarms were going off, she was screaming. Fortunately, this was all in her mind, so she slowly, and gently, slipped out of the bed without making a sound, and headed for the bathroom, grabbing her robe on the way. By the time she reached her kitchen she was in desperate need of coffee and a tranquilizer. She settled for coffee as she fully recalled the night before. She had been dozing, but was awakened by the slight squeak of the opening door. The she felt the bed next to her depress slightly. All this had happened many times before, but, for some reason, this evening, she altered her behavior. Instead of just ignoring the intrusion, she rolled over onto her back and turned her head slightly to see the man lying next to her. When he noticed that she was awake, he bent his elbow lifted his head onto his hand. He smiled at her. It was the smile that did it, she now thought. It wasn't a smirk, or one of the superior things that he usually gave her. It was genuine. Sincere. Boyish. And beautiful. And when he moved his other hand to cup the back of her head, and lowered his lips to hers, still smiling, dammit, she knew she was lost.

Some time later she lay in his arms afraid to speak because she didn't really know what to say. She hadn't been at a loss for words a few moments before, saying his name repeatedly and whispering encouragement. Not that he needed it! But now, she was at a loss.

"Sherlock?" It came out a question.

"Molly!" This was not a question. And he looked down at her, wearing that same smile that had started this whole thing. "You're tired, I know. Double shift, and a bit of, uh, exercise, eh? So, close your eyes and get some sleep. We'll talk later."

"You'll be gone in the morning. You're always gone in the morning!"

"Not this time, Molly." He said as he pulled her even closer, and kissed her forehead.

"We'll talk then?"

"Maybe. We'll see, shall we?"

"We need to talk," Molly tried to complete the sentence, but wasn't really sure if she had. She felt so warm, and secure, and happy, dammit! So she dozed off, evidently to mistake reality for her usual dreams. She was roused from this reminiscence by the sound of the bathroom door opening.

Sherlock Holmes walked slowly toward the kitchen, where Molly Hooper was sitting with her cup of coffee. He started out rubbing the stubble on his chin, then his hand moved upward to comb his fingers through his curls, supposedly trying to tame them just a bit. He stopped just short of the kitchen table. "Oh, good. I thought I smelled coffee."

Molly might have taken a moment to appreciate just how good he looked with stubble and wild curls, but she was distracted by the fact that he was stark naked. "Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked with an air of innocence.

"You're naked!"

"Yes, Molly. I am aware. What's the problem? You are a doctor, after all, so you have seen naked male anatomy in general. And, not to be indelicate, you have seen this naked male anatomy in particular."

"Not in my kitchen!" She was sputtering now, and looking pointedly away. "It could be dangerous."

"How so? Unless you plan on hurling that hot coffee at me? I have no plans to run around haphazardly with a pair of kitchen shears."

Molly was having trouble conversing, as, with him standing and her sitting, due to their height differential, it was not his face in her line of sight. "Sit down, at least!" she said, diverting her eyes from the obvious distraction.

"Fine, I'll sit. Reluctantly, as my view down the front of your robe is now seriously obstructed!"

"Sherlock, you're acting like a hormonally charged teenager!"

"Teenager, Molly? I thought my performance was rather mature, didn't you?. The infamous smirk had returned. "Surely not dirty old man? We'll have to wait a few years for that, I suppose."

Molly tried to compose herself before she continued. "Sherlock, we really do have to talk."

"Why? What is there really to talk about? We had sex. Very good sex. At least from my point of view. Does your opinion differ?"

"What? No, of course not! It was great. Wonderful. Life altering, in fact!"

"So, what do we need to talk about? I enjoyed it, you enjoyed it…"

"It's the 'life altering' part we should talk about, you git! We should discuss things. Was it a one off? An experiment?"

"Why would it be a one off if we both enjoyed it so much? And I have to tell you, Molly, I did all my experimenting at uni. Although I am not averse to trying something new if that's what will make you happy."

"Sherlock, this is not a discussion. This is shaping up to be nothing more than an amusing exchange of patter. We need to be serious…"

"I don't want to be serious. I'm happy, a situation usually quite foreign to me. I had hoped that you would be happy, too. But if you really need to discuss the situation, we can do that. Just not right now."

"When, then?"

"I can pencil you in for sometime in late August 2046."

"Sherlock, be serious. That's thirty years from now!"

"I am serious, Molly." He spoke as he started to rise from his seat.

"Stop! What are you doing?" the pathologist shouted in a panic.

"I feel the need for coffee, Molly. This discussion is taking longer than I expected."

She jumped to her feet, planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him, not gently, back into his chair, just before certain parts of his anatomy crossed the horizon of the tabletop. She was already feeling a bit discombobulated, and wanted to keep distractions to a minimum. As she busied herself fetching his coffee, the detective mumbled, "We'll have to do something about your choice of kitchen chairs, Molly."

It was then that she realized that the wicker seats of her chairs may be far from comfortable on a naked bum. She giggled a bit, thinking of his perfect ass turning a mottled red by the criss-cross pattern of wicker caning. "I didn't tell you to come into the kitchen pantsless, Sherlock."

"No, but you did make me sit down, Molly. That was cruel."

The small woman smiled just a bit as she placed the steaming mug in front of him, noticing how he was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Could we finish up here, Molly, and go back to bed?"

"Are you tired, Sherlock?"

"Not at all, Molly!" The detective smiled seductively, and the poor woman felt the warmth climbing up her neck. "Dr. Hooper, do you recall introducing my brother to you rather delectable chocolate cream fairy cakes?"

"Yesssss…" Surprised at the seeming change of subject, Molly wasn't sure where this was going.

"And I asked you once why you continue to bake them for him regularly. Do you remember your response? Your exact words?"

"I was just repeating his words to me, Sherlock. I continue to make them for him because it would be 'cruel not to, as he loves them so much.' "

"Exactly!" the detective said triumphantly.

"Are you comparing me to chocolate cream fairy cakes, Sherlock?"

"Yes! I mean, no!? I was thinking more of the sentiment involved." Molly found it rather endearing that even so round about a confession of sentimental attachment would cause him such discomfort.

"Sherlock, it may be lack of sleep, or the fact that I'm still feeling the effects of sex induced endorphins, but it almost sounds to me like you're saying you love me as much as Mycroft loves my fairy cakes."

"Of course I do, Molly. How much clearer can I be?"

"Perhaps a bit. We'll work on that, shall we?"

"If you insist." Sherlock rose from the chair, and this time Molly didn't stop him.

"What about that whole late August 2046 thing, Sherlock? What did that mean?"

"Nothing, really. I was just hoping the whole discussion thing would be moot by then, what with all the children, and grandchildren."

"See, you git. That's what we should be discussing, isn't it?"

"I firmly believe that actions speak louder than words, love." He took her hand and kissed the back of it, then moved his own hand around her waist as he guided her back to bed. As he did so, Molly couldn't help but turn her head and glance down at the waffle-like pattern embedded in his rather perfect ass. She really had to get rid of those kitchen chairs, as she found she could easily get used to a naked detective in her kitchen.


End file.
